Filums....(as we say round here)

There are no good movies about the restaurant business at all, none. Here's the latest offering, "The Slammin' Salmon". I would say all the best bits are in the trailer and even they are awful. That said there is one good bit at about 1 minute 39 but that's it. It's about a restaurant owner who owes money to thew mob and yada yada yada needs to get the money or he'll get killed or something and all that sort of jazz. You get the drift. This depresses me, the lack of a good movie about the biz, not the impending death of a fictional movie character. Meh....

It's not safe for work
hell it's not safe for DVD

Seriously if anybody has any good recommendations for films about the restaurant/waiting/bar game then I'm all ears. Actually I'm all sausage right now but that's another story. Oh and minus ten points if you even think of mentioning Cocktail.......Bleurgh.

This week I was mostly....

This week, and for the foreseeable future, I shall be mostly wearing black, mostly. Not out of respect for those long since dead you understand and not because I was retreating back to the happy days of Gothdom and all that terrific somberness and wonderful gloom filled malarky. No, I was wearing black for it's magical slimming powers. This was following a visit to the butchers, obviously.

I had bobbed into my local purveyor of quality meat and meat based products to purchase some of his marvelous black pepper sausages, for they are beefy heaven on a plate. I love a visit to the butchers, it's like a big meaty carnivorous candy store staffed by large men with ruddy red cheeks and fetchingly stripey aprons. But something was amiss. Instead of being greeted with the usual booming "Hello sir", from the burly master of the tenderloins I was instead squeaked at by a little fella. Oh something was amiss alright, amiss and awry.

Where was the beefy butcher with the slapped red cheeks? Eh? What had the two little fellas done with him? I was worried that I had stepped through a portal when I entered the butcher shop and was now, in fact, a giant. I sorta liked that idea. Obviously taking acid in the 90's still worries me to this day.

The answer turned out to be really rather mundane, as it always does. These were the sons of the butcher and they even had little butcher outfits on and little butcher hats on and they had rubbed blood on their little pale cheeks to mirror their dad's scarlet complexion. Awh, bless. Either that or there is some sort of genetic defect that runs in the family.

Anyhoo, he asked me what I wanted and I ordered my sausages and then some more sausages and some pudding. Butchers, even little fella butchers, have a fantastic ability to make you buy things you didn't even want. He chatted as he weighed and wrapped my splendid purchases.

"So....cold out today?", commented the little fella.

"Sure is......might brighten up later though," I replied with an uncharacteristic sense of optimism.

"Aye you could be right....a dozen of them pork and chilli was it?", asked yer wee fella.

"Yup give us a dozen......what the hell.....you only die once eh?", said I continuing the cross counter banter. This raised a chuckle from the wee fella butcher and from his brother who was loitering with intent beside the shoulders of lamb. This carried on for a bit with everything from the price of animal feed to who was likely to be headlining at this years Glastonbury festival up for discussion. It was odd to say the least as the kid couldn't have been older than 13.

"You're a happy lad", says yer wee butcher fella.

"No point crying about things now is there?", says I.

"No, no your really are a jolly chap. Not enough jolly chaps like you about and you're not scared of your dinner either are you? Here have some extra sausages", and with that he packs up my meaty purchases and throws in some more for good luck.

Now at first I thought this was a bit previous, did he have the authority to be handing out free sausages willy nilly to all and sundry. And what did he mean by jolly? Jolly is code for fat. You don't live as long and as plump as I have without being able to read the signs. The impertinent little git. He wouldn't be so bloody quick with the witticisms if his da had been a chimney sweep that's for damn sure.

Still, I took the free sausages, thanked him and cycled home manfully struggling with my Noah's Ark of delightful meat. When I got in I had a right jolly old fry up.

Jolly?

Pfft to jolliness and pfft to little fellas in butchers aprons.

The centre of the Well Done Filletverse...

clicky the picy to behold it's full glory...

that's what it's like 24/7

Lots more here

Manuel in the countryside and other issues...

sleep...
...I needs it

I got a text message from the Glorious Leader one Monday night recently which read,

"Lvn @ 2 dnt b lte. (:"

I peered at my phone with the puzzled look of a 36 year old man, mainly because I am a puzzled 36 year old man but also because I had no idea what it meant. I peered and I puzzled. I scratched and I wondered. Eventually I set it down and went back to watching a rerun of celebraty chef/crazy scientist, Heston Blumenthal, take on the culinary "outrage" that is the Little Chef. All the mock horror and sneering was getting to me a bit so I went back to the phone again.

Seriously no one does sneering and mock horror better than a celebrity chef on a crusade to save something/make themselves all heroic. Okay some waiters have been known to ham it up a bit when you arrive five minutes late for your reservation, and by some I mean me, obviously. But have you seen Kitchen Nightmares? It's an hour of overreacting, faux outrage and sneering which inevitably ends in the making of a chicken casserole.

Every fucking time.

But the message puzzled me. I wondered what had happened to his vowels - had an upturned glass of water robbed him off his vowels? Had he lost his vowels in a particularly odd game of chance with a Chinese cardsharp? Who knows what happened to his vowels!? In the end I passed the phone to Little Miss Manuel who immediately translated the cipher to read, "Leaving at 2, don't be late. "

"Right! Leaving at 2, don't be late. Obviously. Sake why didn't he just say that then? And what does he mean don't be late? I've never been late for anything in my life!"

Correctly assuming that our relaxing and slumbersome evening was coming to an end Little Miss Manuel went home.

"But what does this mean?" I asked and held the phone out at her like a deaf person with a piece of paper trying to order food.

"What does what mean Manuel?", said the remarkably narky LMM who was clearly getting upset with my line of questioning. Although in retrospect there is every chance it was more to do with my running commentary whilst watching TV.

"This open bracket colon thingy, I mean what's that all about?"

"That? That's a smiley face", says she as she left.

A smiley face?

From the boss?

A smiley?

Face?

From the boss?

For the love of Jebus what is that all about? This, from the man who recoils in horror when someone tries to shake hands, he's sending me smiley faces? Mother of Mercy, how odd.

I had forgotten that the boss and the head chef had planned to go to some restaurant for a snoop and had asked me if I wanted to go. I didn't want to go but a free lunch is a free lunch eh?

So come two o'clock I found myself sitting in the front seat of a rather unkempt car with a grown man who likes to send smiley faces to his staff and the head chef who hasn't cracked an actual smile for about three years. Awesome way to spend an afternoon I can tell you.

"So boss, where we going then?"

"Ards?"

"Scuse me? Ards? As in Newtownards? As in not in Belfast anymore?"

"Aye, that's the one."

I spent the next five minutes muttering to myself. You see I'm not a fan of leaving the city. Okay that's not really true. I'm just not a fan of the many small towns, hamlets, and villages that masquerade as cities and the inhabitants contained therein in and around Belfast. I don't like the way everybody knows everybody else or the way all the shops are run by the same family. I mean how can the same person who runs the bar be the same person that runs the funeral parlour that runs the petrol station. It's spooky wrong that's what it is. Plus they don't take kindly to men with wonderful and elegant man bags. Troglodytes.

But there was nothing I could do about it now, I was strapped in and going to Ards whether I liked it or not. And I did not like it. But location aside I was out for the afternoon, mixing with the le grand fromages from work and I was grumping? What the hell is wrong with me?!

It's a time thing you see or rather a lack of time thing. I need more time. I didn't have time to be galavanting and brown nosing with the big boys, I could have been writing. Honestly I need an extra day in the week, an extra hour or four in a day and several thousand large in the bank. I have projects and work piling up at a rate of knots and sleep has become a inconvenience that just slows the whole process of work/living/blogging/writing down to a complete halt. So a free trip into the wilderness with the boss and the cooker monkey in-chief was all just a hassle I could live without.

But it shouldn't be like that.

Something has to give folks or I am for an early grave. That said, someone smart ass did remark the other day that I must be relieved that I can no longer die young. Cheeky fucker. I have things to be doing and not enough time to be doing it. So just like car plants all over the world and with immediate effect Well Done Fillet will be moving to a three/four day week.

And when I get my load lightened and am able to sleep again I will return to full production. Until then I'll see you every other day. And for the record lunch was good but I had no earthly idea what they were saying.

Country folk......pfft....

Reader, I was that jovial and handsome man...

Picture the scene....

It was about half five maybe quarter to six on Saturday evening. All the Waiter Chums and Chums of Waiters were pacing like caged tigers waiting for the Christians to be thrown into the colosseum. Or in this case fans of tragic and overblown pish band, The Killers ("I've got soul but I'm not a soldier?" Gimme a fucking break! I've got milk but I'm not a milkman.) We were kicking off slightly earlier than usual and the restaurant was full save for one table of two which had just come free due to a last minute cancellation.

only to be used by competent adults...

The phone was ring a ding dinging, such is it's want.

Enter a jovial and handsome man, if you squint and suspend belief that is.

"Hello Manuel speaking, How can I make your dreams come true?", or words to that effect.

"Eh hello...", it was a mans voice and he sounded under pressure, "...listen I know this is unlikely but is there any chance of getting a table for two in about a half hour?"

"Lets me see sir", replied the jovial and handsome man, if you squint and suspend belief that is. I knew there was a table free, hell I know if their is a dot out of place on the booking sheets. But it's important to keep the guest waiting and frustrate them for a moment. Life is dull and one must take joy were one can find it.

So after a minute or so of doodling on a napkin the jovial and handsome man, if you squint and suspend belief that is said, "Ah yes sir I would have a table for two in about a half hour no problem but I would need it back for about 8pm. Would that be okay for you?"

"Awh dude that is just brilliant", replied the man on the other end of the phone with much relief. I could feel the pressure drop from him as his voiced changed from one of, "my balls are in a vice, man, they are so in a vice" to one of "tra la la la life is good I'm going for dinner and my balls are no longer in a vice, man"

Waiters eh, spreading joy like jam on your early morning toast and getting balls out of vices. Wonderful people.

The jovial and handsome man, if you squint and suspend belief that is took the guest's details and joined back with his Waiter Chums and Chums of Waiters in the pacing of the restaurant floor.

The phone was ring a ding dinging, again, such is it's want.

Enter the same jovial and handsome man again as before, if you squint and suspend belief that is.

"Hello Manuel speaking, How can I make your dreams come true?", or words to that effect.

"Yeah is that Manuel?", asked the voice on the other end of the phone.

"Yes this is Manuel, how can I make your dreams come true?", said with sincerity. No really!

"Yeah I was on a moment ago and booked a table for two", his balls appeared to be back in a vice as he sounded like he was under pressure again.

"Ah yes sir, and how can I help?"

"Yeah, tell you what it is..."

I do like it when people tell me how it is.

"...how come you have a table free on a Saturday night? I mean that's a bit odd isn't it? On a Saturday night? That cant be a good sign......doesn't say much for your restaurant now does it?"

And with that the jovial and handsome man from before disappeared, instead his face contorted with rage and his voice became mean.

"Excuse me?"

"Yeah I tell you what it is, I've got a booking in another restaurant and I'm gonna take it. I don't wanna take a chance on an unpopular restaurant on Saturday night."

"So you're canceling then?"

"Yeah...."

The once jovial waiter managed to cut him off him before he started his bonkers tirade of bonkersness all over again.

"Okay you have a great night now, ba bye", sarcasm dripped from every word. The jovial and handsome man was impressed with himself for not kicking off in a Christian Bale stylie, as he known to do.

The once jovial but still rather handsome man, if you squint and suspend belief, was confused and it has to be said a little hurt by the assertions of the clearly mental chap on the phone. If he had secured another booking in another restaurant at such short notice surely that meant it had free tables on a Saturday night and what have you. It was all so so baffling.

I do hope he got food poisoning and spent the weekend expelling his own body weight in shit, pish and vomit all over his bathroom suite and his bedroom too. One can only be jovial for so long.

It was all so frightfully perplexing.......

No......I just have something in my eye...

Congratulations to Sweary and all the winners. I shall raise a cuppa in your honour....

Robert Downey Jr and I have practiced our loser faces....

So, everybody is away to the Irish Blog Awards then eh. I have never felt more alone in all my life, sniff sniff. But never fear I'll man the internet and what have you whilst the rest of the world wide web's greatest heros stuff their little faces with cocktails sausages and free bubbly. Maybe I'll twit to myself for amusement or most likely I'll just cry into my pillow........again.

So for all those about to rock, in a twitterish/wordpressy/bloggery kind of way, I salute you! And remember it's got fuck all to do with taking part and making new friends and contacts, it's about winning. So with that in mind will somebody give Twenty Major a playful thump on the arm from me when he gets his award, for he still deserves it the most. It's like I told Robert Downey Jr the other day, "You cant beat a dead guy who wore lipstick and gurned like a mentalist for an hour or two and you cant beat The Major."

If you are going have a great time.

Best of luck to all my blog chums, you know who you are, and I hope you win. If anybody needs me I'll be cursing my luck and crying worse than an Oscar winner.....

Aliases.....

I was dum de dumming and tat te tatting my way through the Match of the Day theme tune at work on Tuesday night. This was as much to amuse myself as to relieve the boredom. It was early and there wasn't a lot going on and to be honest I was feeling a bit lonely. The MOTD theme tune is a comfort. Gary Lineker is not. All the waiter chums and chums of waiter, and most of the chefs, were all away out on the staff party. Being a grade three shut-in I volunteered to work and let all the kids go instead. I'm very magnanimous like that. (and was in no way because I'm a grumpy old git who prefers the company of strangers to that of his work chums)

Damn my benevolent heart because I was now mired in a very bitter case of jealousy. I wanted to go and get drunk on tequila and be sick on myself and say inappropriate things just like the rest of them. A little tear of sadness escaped from my eye as I waved them all off. By wave them off I really mean give them the fingers.

bokey bokey wrongness....

But I got over soon enough, tea helped. So there I was a while later, my tears all dried up, humming the theme tune to Match of the Day again when in walked The Family Morris. I say walked but the Morris' don't really walk, they appear, they materialize even, as if from thin bloody air. I don't know how they do it but they definitely don't walk.

I had been doodling on the booking sheets, whilst humming (how's that for multi tasking?) at the time and nearly shat a brick when Morris Senior discreetly coughed to announce their presence. Honestly they are like shape shifters, one minute you think you are standing beside a rather humdrum and browning ficus plant and the next it's an odd family of three with seemingly magical powers.

It's all very disturbing. They aren't really called the Morris' but it's what I call them mainly due to Mr Morris' general appearance being that of a Morris Minor car. That is to say he is more rounded than fat. It's as if somebody has taken a big wood plane and smoothed off all the pointy bits. As well as Mr Morris there is his wife, Morris Dancer (she likes the ballet) and their daughter Morris Minor, obviously. They were allocated their names before I was aware of their shapeshifting/stealth skills.

We give most of our regular guests nicknames. This shouldn't be taken as a sign of approval or even endearment, it's just an easier and quicker way for us waiters to recognise who we are talking about when we are talking about them. And we are always talking about them, unless of course we are talking at to them.

For example Waiter Chum Number One and I were shooting the breeze before the restaurant opened on Saturday evening when she mentioned that Mr and Mrs Smith had been in the previous Thursday night.

"Who?"

"Mr and Mr Smith, you know them! Tall guy with blonde hair? Wife works in the bank? Stays for hours? You served them last week! Cagney and Lacey!"

"Oh Cagers and Lacey! Why didn't you say?! Have a little drink or twelve did he?"

She looks like everybody's favourite mumsie cop and he likes a drink, hence Cagney and Lacey.

Then there are the three geeks. They wear glasses and constantly fiddle with iPhones, Blackberries and laptops during lunch and almost always wear short sleeved shirts with more pens in the top pockets than in your average Office Depot. So obviously they are the Bill Gates'. See what we did there eh? Wonderfully enough they come in three handy sizes - Big Bill, Medium Bill and Wee Bill so this makes things a little easier when you are sending food to their table. "Big Bill is on soup and Medium Bill is having salad" etc.

Lovely Man says "lovely" no matter what you bring or say to him.

"And now sir, your steak"

"Lovely"

"And your water sir"

"Lovely"

"Your car is on fire sir"

"Lovely"

And on it goes.

And of course you know Todd the Toucher, Dances with Glue and Slovenly McGinbreath but there is also Smells like Feet. He smells like feet, obviously, despite his penchant for bathing in gallons of aftershave. It's not a pleasant combination I can tell you, feet and Hi-Karate or whatever the hell it is he slaps on. It gets you in the back of your throat and leaves you dry heaving and gagging for hours. Much like being exposed to the work of Adam Sandler.

Of course the trick is not to call them their nickname when talking to them. I mean I really don't think Mr Dick for a Nose nor Ms Globulous Maximus would take kindly to it. Still the letter of complaint would make fascinating reading.....

The problem of Hitler and big hoses...

So it appears Hitler had bad table manners. Is anyone really surprised about this? I mean when you are a psychopathic megalomaniac (is there any other sort of megalomanic?) intent on murder and destruction on a worldwide scale do you really need to worry about the niceties of fine dining and which spoon you use first? And if you were dining with the maddest bastard on Gordon's green earth since Ghengis Khan would you really be brave enough to roll your eyes and tut tut at his vulgar and boorish activities?

I don't think so.


The Belfast Telegraph reports that a chum (did Adolf have chums? Probably not.) one Lieutenant Colonel PW reported that, "At the table and in his speech he shows many facets of his rather uncouth behaviour. He abstractedly bites his fingernails, he runs his index finger back and forth under his nose, and his table manners are little short of shocking." Charming I'm sure. He also went on to state that he would bite his fingernails at the table and then rather weirdly that he liked cake. Crikey, I like cake!

But then again he needn't worry too much about it in terms of his legacy. I mean most people, when prompted to remark about old Adolfo, aren't likely to say, "Ooooh that Hitler....terribly uncouth at the dinner table......elbows on the table and everything."

I had a little guest like that on Wednesday evening. Okay she was about seven or something but still she did pick her nose, roll, and eat the contents. It was stomach churning to say the least. I wouldn't have minded but I was standing there waiting for her to tell me what she wanted to eat and her father was staring straight at her. I mean really!

She had the cod, the little nose picking darling. Her little brother meanwhile was kicking up a storm and nothing would settle the agitated little blessing. It was getting right on my ample man tits something shocking. Fizzy pop in a bottle with a straw did appease him. Crayons and a colouring booking did cure what ailed him. Nor did the soothing words of his mother nor the threats of his father.

"Wail wail wail!!", went the child.

"Mother of holy fuck!!", went I from the back corridor where I was hiding for a moments relief from the screaming. And it was there that I saw the solution, a firmans helmet! "You'll do me matey!", I said with excitement as I picked up the plastic helmet. What kid wouldn't want a fireman's helmet of their very own I asked myself.

In I marched, with confidence, back into the restaurant. I popped the helmet on the crying child and he looked round at me with a wondrous look in his eyes! HE STOPPED CRYING! Huzzah for me! Huzzah for people with ears! The parents thanked me, the little nose picker thanked me. And off I walked feeling as pleased as punch as I'm not normally adept or skilled with dealing with kids in the restaurant. I maintain a five foot away policy at all times when it comes to children.

"Eh you can have this back", screamed the mother five minutes later. She had to scream as yer wee man was back at the wailing again.

"Eh......what.....eh....?", I was confused? Did they want their kid to scream the place down?

"That is a disgusting thing to give a child, you should be ashamed of yourself! Gimme the bill, now." She was gone, deep end, over the edge man, over the edge. The rage in her face was quite frightening, I threw the helmet behind me and got them the bill. The dad stuffed money in my direction, he didn't quite get my hand and most of it spilled onto the bar top.

And they were gone.

Crikey! What was that all about? I picked up the helmet and looked at it, something I had negated to do when I first found it.

Balls.

Balls.

Balls.

Balls.

There, emblazoned on the front was the root of the trouble, "Fire Sergeant Lovin', Big Hose Inspector" with a fire department logo with aforementioned Big Hose in all it's revealing glory. Oh my, oh my oh my oh my! The tawdry helmet had been left over from a hen party from last weekend. I spent the rest of the evening very red faced and uncharacteristically sheepish.

There is a bottle of bleach in my bathroom with a warning label on the back that reads, "KEEP AWAY FROM CHILDREN". Sage advice indeed......

Anna Magnowska - Crikey....!

I was wandering aimlessly round the caverns and caves of the internet on Monday evening, steering clear of the naughty places where dirty men hang out (MySpace is so hideous). It was all rather indiscriminate - clicking from football to music to notepads to chocolate to googling my name. Useful it was not. But on I clicked. I was just about to call it quits and retire to the sitting room for a pre dinner snackette of macaroon and tea when I realised I hadn't visited the wonderful Made in England by Gentlemen in a week or two.

Well I nearly spat my tea out, nearly. For there, at Made in England by Gentlemen, was the work of Anna Magnowska, a waitress/artist. And it blew me away. Here have a peep...

by Anna Magnowska

by Laura Quick

As you can see they are actually done on sheets from order pads and if you look closely enough you can still see the actual order on the sheet. I have to say that I am totally taken with these, they really are just superb. The way she has captured the attitude and indeed ugliness of spirit of some guests is just remarkable. These pictures say more and say it better than any of my rage filled missives and with more humour too.

I have wasted my life. (Irish Blog Award shortlisting aside, which is a definite yippee moment)

If anybody needs me I shall be crying into my pillow whilst eating a macaroon bar.

Check out more of Anna's waitressing work here

and with other work by Anna and her waiter chum Laura Quick in The Independent here

purchase prints and originals from here.

I'll have two please....with chips, thanks.

St Valentine eh? What a twat...

"I love you Manuel", I whispered gently to myself before I rolled over and shut my eyes to dream of giddily running hand in hand with myself through flowery meadows. I heart myself.

Saying that, I had fallen out with myself earlier that evening after three counts of unchecked idiocy, namely - spilling tea over the bed (which technically counts as two counts of unchecked idiocy as wasting good tea is a heinous act of willful disregard), one horrendous count of naked toe stubbing which ended up with me on the floor crying like a dying dog and one count of glass breaking, one of the new glasses at that. I was a one man Marx Brothers film minus the quality one liners. Unless of course, "Go fuck yourself you fucking fuck fuck of an eejit" counts as a quality one liner?

I didn't think so.

But I gave myself a sharp talking to and moved on. I bonded and learned to love myself again over a cup of tea and mini twister ice lolly. It was all quite touching really, but then again I'm really quite lovable so it's hard for me to stay angry with myself. Other people seem to have no such problems though. But as I lay in bed tenderly hugging and rocking myself to sleep I wondered about my two tables of feuding guests from Saturday night. Were they rocking each other to sleep or was she sharing her sister's spare room with an exercise bike and a box of books whilst he drinks himself in to a stupor in an empty two up two down semi detatched?

It had all started so well with gentle flirting, mainly from me, and loving lustful looks, not me, obviously. They chatted and laughed and looked like the epitome of sweetness. Love enveloped them and joy was unbound. Both tables ordered the fondue to share for their dessert, awh. Through my rose tinted eyes I noticed wee playful touches and the constant whispering of sweet nothings. Although on reflection that could have been nudges and whispering about me, "Is creepy fat waiter staring us?"

But all was going swimmingly well. As predicted the restaurant did look every inch the set of a Guns n Roses video bedecked as it was with candles and lusciously expensive flowers. The atmosphere was actually quite pleasant and the animosity and passive aggressive rage of previous St. Valentine's days was ominously missing. Not that I knew that it was ominous at the time. That said it did feel a little dull and if I'm being honest quite boring for us waiters and chums of waiters. The bookings had been so well planned that all the expected pressure and exhilaration had been removed. Manuel needs, nay, lives for his Saturday night rush and buzz. But it's not about me, apparently, and the guests all appeared to be having a swell time.

It was getting late in the evening and Waiter Chum Number Two and I were polishing our way through seemingly endless trays of cutlery when we were both rudely snapped out of our malaise, polishing cutlery is a hypnotic bore, by the sharp snappy tone of an angry man.

"Wha yi fucking mean? No no say what you were goin til say?", his face was red but you knew he was holding back a little, not much, but constrained all the same.

The lady's response was inaudible from where we were. Damn Tony Bennett and his big band. But her lips were pursed and she didn't look chuffed at all. She didn't look at her beau either. This went on for a few minutes, the sharp snapping from him followed by inaudible responses from her. To be honest she was letting her hands do most of the talking, not that she hit him.

It was all very frustrating for us waiters. We had to stop polishing the cutlery for god's sake to try and make out what she was saying. Waiter Chum Number One wasn't quite sure what was going on at first when she wandered behind the bar to find us deathly still and mute. We caught her up to speed and there we were were, all three of us, holding our breath trying to eary-wig on the most private of conversations/arguments.

Still, if you don't want us to listen don't argue loudly in front of us. And if you do well then speak up.

People don't set out to argue in public and there is no real way to conduct such things with any real decorum unless of course you are a character in a Merchant Ivory film. But just as things were heating up with more constrained expletives from him and defiant gesticulation from her the couple three tables over decided to get in on the act too. There were, thankfully, no other punters near them as I would have had to step in and I really really didn't want to have to wander into that particular bear pit. These were the sad unused tables that never got to fulfill their Valentines Day destiny.

This new episode of not so lovely verbals was definitely brought on by the large and rapid consumption of well priced Australian Shiraz. He made his views known regarding something she had or had not done quite forcefully and she defended her position with equal vigor and after a good ten minutes of heated debate they resolved their differences, so much so in fact that they ordered another bottle and he cozied up beside her on her side of the table. Crikey.

Meanwhile things had gone all quiet at the other table. I saw an opportunity to stick my nose in. As my waiter chums watched on with their mouths open...

"So folks did you enjoy everything tonight?", I asked with my tongue planted very firmly in my cheek. To my surprise the young lady who was staring intensely at something way off to the left replied, "Oh yes I had a lovely evening....great food and you were just so sweet."

I was.

"Aye....just great.....", started yer man with an attempt at sarcasm whilst staring way off to the right but I didn't believe either of them, "...get us the bill will ya?"

And of they popped. Clearly it will take more than a good talking to over a cup of tea and a mini twister to reunite this pair of love birds. St Valentine eh? What a twat.

I'm a little tea boy, short and stout.....

The answer to Sunday's little tickler was eight no shows and by the time I had my coat and mittens on there were two brouhahas a brewing and a rumbling and a not so gently simmering. They were both in my section so clearly I was to blame according to my waiter chums. Personally I would lay the blame at the door of Mr Alcohol who closed the door on Mr Passive Aggression and opened the door and dragged in Mr All out Rage. Should have just had a nice cup of tea and left the booze alone...

I'm always chittering on about how much coffee I drink. In fact if you follow my every movement on Twitter I am always either going for a coffee or just back from coffee. I would have you believe that my day starts and ends with litre after litre of bean juice. I have probably given you the impression that I am one of those jittery twitchy people who is jacked up to the hilt on caffeine. But it's all a lie, it's not true, it's a cover. There I've said it, I've come clean.

I am a tea boy and that's that.

get the badge here...

Now don't get me wrong I do enjoy the short sharp boost of bitterish relief that can only be found in a teeny tiny espresso cup but tea is my true love and it's with a cup of tea in one hand and LMM in the other that I truly feel complete.

Sigh...

Do you, like me, have a love for tea? I'm a three bag per cup man, I do use big cups it has to be said. But oh how I love tea. Tea tea tea tea tea tea tea tea mmmmmmm tea. I spend most of my waking hours sipping, quaffing and imbibing cup after cup of strong black yea. It's a grand life, it really is.

So it was with glee and excitement that I opened the little brown package that was popped with an oh so delicate touch by the postman through my letterbox on Friday morning. Because I knew what it was, it was my membership to THE TEA APPRECIATION SOCIETY!

Hurrah! A society that finally wants me! A society that finally accepts me for what I am, a tea boy! Actually there is no screening process and I'm pretty sure they will accept anyone with the correct money. But it was a joy and it many ways a relief to find a group of like minded individuals with whom I can share my love for all things tea in a safe and secure environment free from the fidgety and somewhat paranoid glare of the coffee addicts. Tea is a simple drink for simple folk. We need not the vulgar showiness of lattes and cappuccino nor the aggression of espresso. No, for us, happiness, relief, refreshment and replenishment can be found in a simple cup of tea.

So if you feel that you too could belong in such a society and that you have a love of tea and tea related paraphernalia then I implore you to join The Tea Appreciation Society.

Huzzah for tea and huzzah for societies of tea drinkers!

*******

But if you must drink coffee, and I don't suggest for a moment that you shouldn't, then pop along to Bewley's on Grafton Street where they have a superb Fairtrade exhibition which runs to the 8th of March. You and a friend, (assuming you have a friend if not just buddy up with the other sad sack on the next table over), can enjoy a Fairtrade coffee, tea or hot chocolate. There are also cakes to be had but I couldn't swear as to their ethical status, maybe the baker beats her baker chums until they get the cream just right. I sure she doesn't but until I know for sure I can't really comment.

There are competitions that involve actual prizes, unlike the virtual nonsense handed out around these parts. There is everything from cakes to jollies to Nicaragua.

Which is nice.

Details can be found here and here.

And before any smart arse says it I didn't get a truck load of free tea and or coffee from the good people at Bewley's in return for this post. I just care about stuff and things.....and tea. Obviously.

I blame Marks and Spencers....

St. Valentines Day eh? What a crashing bore, all that anticipation all that effort. And for what? Guess how many tables no showed and win a prize. It will probably be something like a virtual hug or good wishes, anything that means I don't have to bother with the joy and wonder of the post office and the officious delights therein. Oh and in case of several correct answers the tie breaker is, how many couples had started arguing by the time I left work at half eleven?

Bleurgh.....

You know What I love?

I'll tell you what I love, I love taking my shoes of after 13 arduous hours of plate schlepping. I am even quite partial to the sweaty leathery bouquet that is unleashed when I kick my manly size sevens to the floor. It smells like effort, like a job well done, the stench of success even. It also smells like meaty off cheese but what ya gonna do?!

That is what I love.

I am a simple chap with simple pleasures......

Roses are red, violets are blue, my name is Manuel and I'll serve you. So for god's sake smile...

St Valentines day eh, oh how I detest thee. Not the day itself you understand or the whole point of it, I'm all for a bit of organised love and lets be honest the Post Office could do with the work. But it really suits my part fascist part waiter makeup. I love getting a sweetly written card from LMM and I love sending her one with soppy sentiments and a packet of Love Hearts. This year it will be the lyrics of a Camera Obscura track amongst other affections. Couldn't you just lick me all up? But I do loathe working on St Valentine's day. You will never find me up a tree K.I.S.S.I.N.G St. Valentine or more importantly St. Valentine's day diners. Manuel has no love for these people.

And not just because of their parsimonious attitudes either. Worst tipping day ever.

not even the candy love hearts have anything to say on St. Valentines...

Of all the major events that happen throughout the year, St Patrick's Day, Easter, Mothers Day/Fathers Day, all the bank holidays, the month long celebration of Jebus's birthday and what have you St. Val's is the very worst to work.

The atmosphere is terrible, seriously the tension is palpable and that's despite the best efforts of me and all the waiter chums. The restaurant is usually festooned with candles and bunches of roses, from Tesco's hee hee hee, and the lights are dimmed a little lower than normal. Even the never ending pain in the hole/ear the music system, (it took to playing the bloody Wolfetones during service last night) plays it's part well with lots of smooth sounding Lionel Richie, Sinatra, Tony Bennett et al. Honestly the place looks and sounds superb.

But why bother? No one cares. No one acknowledges all the work and effort that us waiters and chums of waiters put in to making this the most loving dinner of their sad little lives. They just sit there, moping and texting banal messages to the person they would rather be with. It's oh so unpleasant and quite frankly rude. I'm not looking for proposals and I'm certainly not advocating cross table sexy sexy time with bodily fluids and tongues a go go but come on people try and look as if you are having a swell and jolly time, if not for yourselves then for us waiters.

Within an hour of opening the place is filled with morose and begrudging couples unhappy at having to forsake a night in the house or fun times out with their chums. It's not so bad if they both feel that way but when one of them is glummer than a puppy in a rescue centre and the other is over compensating like a waiter who has forgotten to ring up your order (occasionally happens. I couldn't possibly comment). That is the worst situation of all and more often than not is what happens with most tables.

Wonder how many couples split up on or after St. Valentine's day? Gotta be a lot.

Still it ain't all bad some people propose on St. Valentines day, in a restaurant, with the help of the waiter. It's a lovely idea in theory, it really is. You will have booked the best table in the best restaurant. You will have your little routine prepared - ring in the champers or hidden under the blancmange. You have gone over and over with the waiter what his role in the whole ghastly ordeal is and then you do it. And sometimes the object of your desire says yes and sometimes they say no. And lets be honest that ain't gonna be a pretty situation now is it?

So if you are considering proposing to your special chum this St Valentines night my advice is don't do it in the restaurant. I say this because if you have told one waiter what your plan is then rest assured that all the other waiters know, and the chefs, and the managers, and quite probably every other punter in the place. So whilst you are sitting there, alone, trying to figure out where it all went wrong and exactly what you are going to do with a year's salary worth of solitaire diamond you can bet your ass the rest of the restaurant will be watching you and wondering why they said no. Oh how they will judge you.

St. Valentines eh, nothing but a lot of heartache, especially for waiters and chums of waiters. And if you don't get a card on Saturday morning remember that your waiter loves you, sort of.

How to survive in the economic downturn/keep your job/lose all your chums...

Ooooh it's tough out there. It really really is. Tips are falling and restaurants are shutting at a rate of knots. It's even biting in the fanciful and cosseted world of celebraty chefdom. Gordon wants more time to pay suppliers, what a nightmare. Mr Blanc is shutting a restaurant, sacrebleu. And poor old Wozza is really in the mire as he closes four restaurants and stares bankruptcy in the face. So not all bad then. But really it is oh so horrible and fills my heart with dread and fear for the future. Is this the right time to be starting a family? I dunno. But then again how much do dogs really cost?

the empty tip jar
the saddest sight in the whole wide world of waiting...

Closing restaurants has a real human cost, and I'm not talking about the bruised egos of the "masters" of the kitchen either. For every restaurant that closes numerous waiters and others end up on the dole queue and that's not very pleasant at all. What we need is a guide to show us the path to keeping our jobs and keeping the money flowing so that we can maintain the lavish, arf, lifestyle that we waiters have become accustomed to. Crikey even I had to forsake the wonderful world of Marks & Spencers the other day and suffer the hideousness that is Tesco's. [shudder] So many people in anoraks, so many stinky students. It offends my delicate and refined senses.

Yeah what we need is a guide to keeping our waiting jobs and how to still earn tips during an elongated and fiscally challenging credit crunch/recession. Oh look there's one right there, what a surprise....

The Well Done Fillet Guide to keeping your waiting job and how to still earn tips during an elongated and fiscally challenging credit crunch/recession.

1. Don't go down with the ship! There are no points for being a hero and sticking it out to the very bitter end. If your restaurant is floundering then do one before they do you because when the door shuts for the last time you and all your waiter chums will probably end up applying for the same jobs.
   
2. Spotting the signs of a sinking ship. Is there a disorderly and quite probably angry queue of delivery drivers waiting for cash before they deposit the asparagus and the beef? Is the boss, "not in" every time the phone rings? Have you noticed the steaks getting smaller and the salad portion getting larger? Is the head chef drunk more often than normal and when sober only found looking at the classifieds for jobs? Has the boss asked you if you can cook? Run Forest, run..and don't look back.
3. Remember it's last in first out. It sucks but it's true. When they come to cut the hours or, even worse, people from the schedule all together you need to know who is in front of you. You need to know who is in front of you and how to get rid of them. You need a healthy buffer of people who started after you and a small line of people who have been there longer than you. Set em up people, set em up. What choice have you got? Plant vodka in their bags, make up stories about them and how they said/did something inappropriate. People come and go all the time so did you really like them that much? Eh? They weren't your real chums.
4. Suck up to the boss. It blows I know, it really really does but you are fighting for your very survival right now. And anyhoo you are a waiter, how much self respect do you really have? Now is not the time for fighting or mounting your lovely high horse and making grandiose proclamations about how reservations should be taken. Buy them things if you must, I suggest a new coffee cup or key ring, that's the sort of stuff they really like. But remember and take note of all the crap they try to pull that you can't answer back to right now and get them in the long green grass in the future.
   
5. Bend over for the nice guests. Literally if you have to. Guests with money are like hens teeth right now so the ones you do get you have to be really super wonderful fantastically nice to. I know I know, it's just awful isn't it? Occasional one liners and sarcastic remarks really wont work anymore, not in a recession. You need to devise cunning and elaborate party tricks, stand up routines and be able to both fascinate and excite the guests with whimsical anecdotes about your time at sea. I suggest getting a hold of some PG Wodehouse. Do whatever you have to get the money from their pocket to your pocket. But no juggling mind, jugglers are sick fucks and you know it.

Of course if all else fails you could just keep your head down, don't rock the boat and just try really really hard to be nice to everybody and get it right. Whatever keeps you in the folding stuff...

The Well Done Fillet Guide to All The Well Done Fillet Guides..

I thought I'd put them all in one place for ease of use. A guide for the guides if you will.

1. The Well Done Fillet Guide to keeping your waiting job and how to still earn tips during an elongated and fiscally challenging credit crunch/recession.
2. The Well Done Fillet Guide to The Top (or is it Bottom?) Restaurant Fads and Trends of all Time.
3. The Well Done Fillet Guide to Surviving the Christmas Office Party Part 1
4. The Well Done Fillet Guide to Surviving The Christmas Office Party Part 2
5. The Well Done Fillet Guide to Surviving the Christmas Office Party Part 3
6. The Well Done Fillet Guide to Surviving the Christmas Office Party Part 4
7. The Well Done Fillet Guide to Identifying the Many Walks a Waiter May Adopt During a Single Service & What They May Mean for you, The Guest
8. The Well Done Fillet Guide to Choosing the Right Restaurant (Because Choosing the Wrong Restaurant is Like Bad Sex.)
9. The Well Done Fillet Guide to Discovering if your child will be a waiter when they grow up.
10. The Well Done Fillet Guide to London
11. The WellDoneFillet Guide to Spotting a Real Ale drinker
12. The Well Done Fillet Guide to Spotting Whether the Waiter is Hot for you or Hot for your Wallet

Not nesting...

still no dog...
sake

"You're getting on like a pregnant woman, look at the state you". The Cousin was quaffing tea on the sofa whilst I was fidgeting about and tidying up the detritus of the day, cups, paper, sweetie wrappers and that sort of thing.

"What are you on about?", I asked as I plonked my generous frame down on the couch.

"You're nesting!", exclaimed The Cousin in a fit of eurekaish excitement. It was as if he had been struggling to find the right word.

"Excuse me?"

"You're so nesting."

"Nesting? What are you on about you curious little man?"

"The tidying up and fussing about and that", he explained as he waved his chubby hands at my perfectly mopped floor and sparkly polished shelving.

Fat handed twat.

"Give over yerself man. I just like a tidy house. Nesting? My arse."

"No, you're definitely nesting. You'll be a great dog-mother some day." He was fighting hard to keep the laughter suppressed. Not fighting hard enough.

"Knock it off or I'm gonna kick your ass." Manuel is not really a kicker of asses but he can talk the talk.

"Nesting", persisted The Cousin.

"Seriously, quit it."

"Nesting", again he poked at me.

"You're cruising dough boy"

It went quiet for a moment as The Cousin rained in his verbal assault. I tried to hide my beaming red, but devilishly handsome, face behind my book. It didn't really help my situation that I was reading about Jack bloody Russell's.

Sake.

The considerable din emanating from the television wasn't masking The Cousin's snickering and poorly stifled guffawing and that was despite him having shoved his fat fist into his gob.

"What? What now?", I barked across the room. Oh ha ha ha, Manuel thinks he's a dog. Grow up, it's a turn of phrase.

HEE HEE HEE HA HA HA went The Cousin.

"I am so gonna batter you, you have no idea mister."

"I saw you in the supermarket yesterday....", he said through streaming tears of laughter.

"And? We were there together you clown"

HEE HEE HEE HA HA HA went The Cousin. Again.

"I saw you go all gooey as we walked through the pet food section." He was now struggling to make himself coherent such was the level of laughter. I may strangle him in his sleep tonight. We shall just see who's laughing then.

"I didn't go gooey in the pet food section. You're gooey". Ooh good comeback.

"Yeah, yeah you did. You went all misty eyed at the tins of Pedigree Chum. And....HEE HEE HEE HA HA HA...."

"And? And what?", I wanted to know what else he had seen imagined.

"And HEE HEE HEE..."

"I swear to god wee man, you are gonna get battered so hard..."

"And HEE HEE HEE...and you ran your fingers longingly over the top of the bags of Winalot in a very dreamy bounding-through-the-fields-with-my-lovely-dog sort of a way." He then proceeded to fall apart the place laughing. He was laughing so hard that he probably didn't hear my threat/promise to evict him by the end of the week.

It was just what I didn't need at the end of another fruitless day searching for a pooch. It had all started so promisingly too. Percy, the brother-in-law, and I arrived at the USPCA home for abandoned and unloved dogs and cats before they opened and before anyone else seeking puppy love had arrived. But by the time the gates finally opened and we were let in there was a right crowd of doggy wanters. To hell with chivalry and all that tosh, I bounded for the gates knocking people to the ground and gouging eyes as I ran.

Whilst Percy went on a one man meet and greet with all the dogs I stayed on-mission and sought out what I was looking for, that being a small, preferably shaggy, youngish dog with the ability to melt hearts at a thousand paces. And luckily I found him, a Jack Russell with little brown stone melting eyes. I found him at much the same time as a rather deathly looking woman in ill fitting tracksuit bottoms and grey tatty cardigan found him.

Our eyes met in opposition and I knew the game was on. Well it would have been if Percy hadn't been doing a Dr Dolittle with each and every pooch in the place. Terrible terrible wingman as far as wingmen go. She instructed her 75 year old looking toy boy to make haste to the office where the guardians of the kennels keep the keys and the deeds, or whatever they have, to the dogs. I, meanwhile was trying to catch the attention of Percy Dolittle who busy having a heart to heart with a sombre looking black labrador. I'm not sure if the black lab had been so melancholic before Percy introduced himself. But I needed him to go get the lady with the keys to come and give me my dog/dream whilst I guarded the kennel.

But it was all so utterly pointless. They lady came with the keys and handed my pooch to the woman in the ill fitting tracksuit bottoms and tatty grey cardigan and off they went to spend their days in front of the fire sucking on boiled sweets and watching Diagnosis Murder. It's little life could have been oh so different if Percy had just stayed on mission. I had to hide for a moment ot dry my weeping eyes.

I wonder if my sister is really so attached to Percy because he may get strangled in his bed after I'm done with The Cousin.

Old people and relatives, I'm against them....

Someone's been peeing in the corners.....

I know it's not cool to say but I really like working where I do. It's the people you see, they are, for the most part, good people. Yes, all the Waiter Chums from one through to four, gently, rock my world and that's despite their many many faults - from unchecked veganism to rampant teenagism. They'll grow out of them I suppose. One day I'll let one of them on here to give you the lowdown on what a never ending joy it is to work alongside me - the tears, the trauma, the laughter, the obsessions and compulsions which are it has to be said, legion, the whims whimsies and foibles all exposed.

Or maybe not.

Definitely not.

"whata bout ye mate?"
local cows speak with a local accent
obviously....

It's true to say that I can be a difficult chap to work with with more moods than a paint shop and more tantrums than backstage at a Prince concert. But when you get to know me you get to love me. Or at the very least you are able to judge my minute to minute mood swings and make rational decisions about staying the fuck away. I'm not easy. I save all the good stuff, the laughter and politeness and the witty remarks for the guests. By the time they have had their pound of benevolent flesh from me I am spent, all tapped out, I have no love left to give.

But when I went back to work on Sunday I was met with a generosity of warmth and good spirit that genuinely touched me. Not that I let them see this of course. I was also called buddy, big fella, sport and champ on numerous occasions which was eh decidedly odd as people gently trod on egg shells around me. Bless. All joking aside they have been great.

Being back at work felt a little weird, a little like I shouldn't have been there even though I really did want to be back. There is only so much moping any one person can do, and I speak as a recovering goth. But the weirdest thing of all was that nothing seemed to be annoying me. Not the mess from the night before. I didn't swear when I happened upon some very out of place and dirty cutlery, I mean why was it in the ice bucket? Why? Why? Why? I neither flinched nor felt the need to punch the wall when I read the somewhat hysterical note on the board regarding St Valentine's day bookings, a note that completely contradicted my previous instructions. A week earlier and I would have been catatonic with rage at such a proclamation, but not today.

Someone had, metaphorically speaking, been peeing in the corners of my restaurant and I wasn't upset, how queer. Had I changed in a week? Was I turning over a new and more pleasant leaf? Was I growing up? It was all jolly strange that's for damn sure.

The first table arrived about ten minutes after we opened. They were wet from the snow but had dressed accordingly. Actually they looked like mannequins from an outdoor pursuits shop such was their get up. It took them five minutes just to get their matching cagoules and hats off. Sake. After a good ten minutes of blowing on their hands, I assumed the blood supply had been cut off due to the ridiculously over the top gloves they were wearing, I bobbed over to get their order.

"And folks are we ready to order?"

"Yes.....eh just a few questions first", said the Chris Bonnington-a-like

"Yes sir what ya need to know?", I replied in an affable and almost jovial manner. It was early and I was tired.

"The Yorkshire puddings with the roast beef are they fresh made or bought in?"

"Oh they are fresh made sir." Lie.

"I'll be able to tell the difference you know"

"Okie dokie." No you bloody wont. A pudding expert, how marvelous I thought.

"Okay that's fine then and the beef itself is it local?"

"Sir if it was anymore local it would have a Belfast accent", this being one of my most often used lines and regularly gets a good reaction. Cows? Speaking, oh Manuel you are a hoot. Not this time though. Ooh tough crowd

"I can tell if it's not..."

"Sir?"

"I can tell if it's not local you know. I eat out a lot. An awful lot." Ooh a dead cow expert to boot, oh how the evenings must just fly by in that house what with all the blind meat tasting and Yorkshire pudding evaluating.

"Sir all our meat is local as stated on the menu", and I pointed a stubby finger where it says, "All our meat is local". This seemed to reassure him.

"So sir will it be the roast beef then for lunch?", I asked in attempt to get things moving.

But chummy wasn't done yet, "The potatoes are they mashed or whole or just how are they served?"

"All the roasts sir are served with both champ and roast potatoes. Proper roast potatoes sir, not bought in. Is that okay for you?" I was trying to preempt his next question.

"Mmmmmmm champ eh." That was a mmmmm of contemplation rather than one of salivation.

Now normally, under usual conditions, I would have quite probably snapped by now or at the very least been fingering the stabbing fork. But given my new dispensation and with a new zest for life and for living I remained both calm and strangely enough pleasant.

"So sir will it be the roast beef eh?" I asked again.

Slapping his menu on the table, consequently sending a starter fork crashing to the floor, he announced, "I'll have the pork!"with a firmness of voice and clarity of decision that right up until that moment had been missing. I didn't see it coming at all, nor the fork either.

Pop went the vein in my neck and all the rage and enmity was back in a flash. He got the silent treatment for the rest of the meal. It was a small thing I know but it did feel good to be back on my high horse again. I was quite worried there for a moment that all my rage was gone, dissipated, diluted by the kindness of my work chums. Now to find the manger who's been writing angry notes, he's gonna get some.

I just need someone to call me a fat bastard again, at work that is, and I will know everything is back to normal. There's never a chef when you need one.....

The bare faced cheek.......(heh)

by the fantastically skilled Green Ink Pen.

Northern Ireland's esteemed (snicker) Minister for the Environment, Sammy Wilson MLA MP, is an never ending source of disappointment and indeed amusement in this house and at a guess I'd say in most houses.

"Well d'uh", I hear you all shout with one unifying voice.

In many respects he is our own George W. Bush. Honestly, The Cousin and I sit with baited breath when the news comes on wondering what scrapes and hilarious situations our hero will have got himself into that day. As minister for roads he was caught by the police driving without having his motorcycle properly taxed. Tut tut. The man is a comedic marvel, a school boy in grown up clothes, the very definition of all mouth and no trousers, and that's a disturbingly accurate description. Picture a small, nasty, snappy dog filled with it's own self importance and you have him in one.

As Minister for the Environment our wee Sammy, pictured above, takes an alternative view with regard to climate change. Alternative meaning against the perceived wisdom of the rest of the world as opposed to a new age rub it with a dandelion and chant round it meaning of the word. Sammy doesn't do dandelions and chanting, probably. No Sammy, the minister for the environment, says it's all a con, climate change and efforts to stop it, describing environmentalists as being members of a "green gang" and followers of a "pseudo-religion".

This from the man who worked with Ian Paisley for countless years.

Oh the irony.

Anyhoo it's not Sammy's plans for saving us from the perils and watery disaster of unchecked climate change, which from what I can tell seem only to involve shouting very loudly, calling people names, and driving fast motorbikes, that has me indignant with rage. No Sammy has gone a step too far this time. Way too far.

As I may have mentioned in previous posts we are enjoying/labouring hard under the icy and snowy grip of winter at present. This is causing the usual disruption and mild chaos as it has become quite difficult and dangerous to get to where you want to be from where you currently are. In fact it's so cold I have taken to sitting beside the radiator in the house in the style of a 1970/80's hostage. Minus the malnourishment and constant threat of death, obviously.

But Sammy, the minister for the environment, isn't having any of it. Oh no Sammy is jolly upset with all the naught people who have taken a day off work or school because of the snow. The lack of a bus or transport should not prevent you from getting to work, according to Sammy. In a rant more befitting an acrimonious Grandfather Mr Wilson, minister for the environment, bellowed that he...

"...can remember in 1963 when there was a heavy snowfall and it lay for weeks, walking to school and the snow was piled above your head but we still got there."

Really? Sweet mother of jebus is that right? Well aren't you just the great fella then! He most probably did it barefoot whilst wiping himself too no doubt.

My god if your da came out with poppycock like that you would roll your eyes and wheel him out on to the porch, in the rain, and leave him there, for ages, until he was alseep. But he's not a dottery old man he is the bloody minister for the bloody environment. He then went off in a lather about "health and safety nut's" and when he was a lad you where allowed to juggle chainsaws and how life was better when you could cuff a unruly child round the back of the head with a baseball bat. Okay he didn't but given enough time and a copy of The Guardian to annoy him he probably would have.

Wilson concluded with,

"I think more and more people are getting fed up with the way the whole health and safety industry is trying to restrict our lives."

I know what he means because the edge really has been taken out of life now that all the electricians are regulated and dangerously unsafe cars are off the road. Blimey dining out offers no fun at all anymore now that food has to be prepared in clean kitchens by staff who know what they are doing. The health and safety bastards have ruined it for all of us.

Or maybe not.

Personally I think the whole health and safety thing is just a bluff and Sammy just doesn't like people having a little bit of sneaky fun when they should be toiling away in the office. Killjoy. What politician in their right mind would deny people a fun day off considering how difficult things have been recently? I ask you......

He's an idiot and a bare faced one at that, obviously.

I'm back at work again so I'll be back on topic again tomorrow.

(I also love that the BBC uses the same plonkerish photo of him for each report.Hee Hee Hee)

***12pm Update***
proving that you are always less than 24 hours away from a Sammy Attack

Sammy, minister for the environment, Wilson has taken it upon himself to block a series of government backed Climate Change adverts from the airways of Northern Ireland. The BBC quotes our wee Sammy as saying,

"the adverts were part of an "insidious propaganda campaign" which would not be imposed on people in NI."

adding they were...

"giving people the impression that by turning off the standby light on their TV they could save the world from melting glaciers and being submerged in 40ft of water".

He said that was "patent nonsense".

and when it comes to patent nonsense he should know what he is talking about. He holds the patent. Disappointingly the BBC have changed the picture of Sammy, fuck the earth and all who live on it, Wilson. But the new one is just as funny.

But after about a minute of digging I think I found the adverts that were upsetting Sammy so much. Click for the full insidious propaganda.

With him in charge we are all doomed, doomed I tells ye...........!

Thankfully I go back to work today...

The Cousin and I were killing the torturous and seemingly interminable moments whilst the kettle boiled with frivolous chatter. This took the form mainly of stating the bloody obvious.

"Cold again today"

"Yup"

"Cold again tomorrow"

"Yup"

[Long pause]

"Evenings are getting longer?"

"Yup"

After a slightly less long pause things became almost raucous when the vexed and curly headed issue of Jeremy Clarkson came up.

"That Jeremy Clarkson eh....huh....."

"Totally......huh.....sake....I mean what's the point.......I mean of Clarkson?"

"Yeah......Clarkson, what is the point?"

We don't like Clarkson as evidenced by this particularly bombastic diatribe. And on and on went the chit chatting for what seemed like 37 years but was in fact about 3 or 4 minutes.

Pop went the kettle in the kitchen. This illuminated our little hairy faces (forgive me father it's been five days since my last shave) and we bounded to the kitchen with all the gusto of two very bored boys who just found a big bag of unguarded power tools. Except it was some rather mundane everyday tea and not a big bag of Black and Decker drills that had made us jump so enthusiastically. Personally I don't ever envisage the day when I will jump with enthusiasm like a giddy seal with a ball and the promise of a bucket of sardines at the sight of a shiny new power tool, a new set of cutlery maybe, but power tools not so likely.

Tea wet and late afternoon bacon sandwiches scoffed we found ourselves back were we didn't want to be, chit and indeed chatting about nothing and everything. I fear for our sanity if we don't secure the never ending and blind love of a suitable dog soon. A suitable dog, like good love it appears, is hard to find these days.

The Cousin returned to flicking through the newspaper whilst I engaged the TV's remote control in an imaginary game of tennis.

Ugh.....

"Have you....eh....secured Little Miss Manuel's St Valentines day present yet?", asked The Cousin without removing his gaze from the newspaper. This was odd as he doesn't tend to involve himself in such affairs. I was nervous, was he about to recommend something from the paper? How frightful. Heh, I could just see LMM's look of devastation/disgust when I told her I got it from the back of The Daily Mirror.

"No, I haven't really thought about it yet. Why?" I asked nervously.

"Well you may wanna check this bad boy out. Set your mince pies (The Cousin watches way too much Eastenders) to stun for I have the very gift for her". He was quite animated now. So much so in fact that as a precaution I took note of my nearest exit, should I need to make a break for it. The last time he got this ebullient he ended up explaining himself to a judge.

"What are you on about?" I was enjoying my imaginary game of couch tennis with the remote control.

"Here.....", and he handed me the newspaper.

Well readers all I can say is that I was shocked to my very core and having worked in a Pizza Hut for numerous years I don't shock easy. It was so hideously tacky and all round offensive that it made Adam Sandler seem positively acceptable. I did a sick in my mouth, mainly at the thought of Adam Sandler in that movie, fuck it any movie (except Punch Drunk Love) and went to reach the paper back to The Cousin who by this point was rolling round on his couch. His hysterical reaction to my shock was alarming. I felt I should dial 99 on my phone and hover my thumb over the 9 key just in case as quite frankly he was scaring me.

But I couldn't give the paper back. This was car crash giftery. In the end I could no longer hold back the laughter either and in a jiffy we were both laughing so hard that the room went silent for the briefest of moments. And what I hear you ask was the cause of this delirium?

Dear sweet readers I give you Dawn's Bright Herald....in the form of a fleece, obviously.

their words not mine

obviously....

It has a picture of a Robin embroidered on the front and back. It is simply awe-fucking-some. If we don't get a dog soon to distract us from this sort of thing I think LMM will arrive round one day to find The Cousin and I expired to the point of death with laughter dressed in matching garish fleeces.

Seriously.....

Snow, Schadenfreude and the final solution.....

Waking up to find a perfect blanket of snow outside my house did not get my day off to the most agreeable of starts. I swore repeatedly using many biblical curses and quite a few words that would make a Roddy Doyle character blush. I wasn't best pleased. I hate snow and all the slip-sliding and shuffling along like you have a fantastic case of chefs arse that comes with it. I am a firm believer that snow belongs only on a Christmas card or in films and only then if it is CGI'd.

dogs, cuter and more useful than snow...
couldn't you just lick him?
I want to lick him...
I wont, obviously

When I say it was a perfect blanket of snow I mean it probably had been sometime earlier. As I hadn't shifted my hairy backed bulk from my bed until a smidgen after ten the pavement was now snowy and slushy and wet and just not very pleasant at all. I stood at the window bemoaning my luck, I had plans that involved going outside and cycling, these plans were now scuppered.

As I stood there peeking out from behind the curtain at the cadaverously hued landscape below I noticed a large man stuffing himself manfully into a tiny European "car". Seriously I have seen better and more reliable looking motorcars painted by 4 year olds. This had the look of a Mr Bean sketch about it so despite being literally ball froze I stood and watched. As predicted/hoped the big man in the tiny car got precisely nowhere. The car's wheels just spun and spun and spun in pointless and silly circles. The big man got out, he looked around the car and then kicked a tyre in that frustrating way that only car owners know how to do. He appeared so infuriated by his car's inability to move that he probably would have kicked an old man in the kneecap if one had been passing. There was no old man passing, thankfully or should that be disappointingly? Not that I advocate kicking old men in the kneecaps.

He needed a push to get moving and as there was no one on the street to help and I don't push cars as a rule, it's a good rule and one I stick to with religious fervor, he was stuffed. He kicked the car again, zipped up his, frankly inappropriate considering the conditions, sports style jacket and headed off into the frosty morning to wherever he was going. This small moment of Schadenfreude lifted my drooping spirits no end and I found myself moments later whistling my way to the shower. Which was nice.

I did eventually make my way outside but not before I had more layers on than a cake shop full of layered chocolate cakes. Over the top? Probably but I take no chances in the snow. Firstly to the sandwich shop for a sandwich, obviously. But the normally businesslike sandwich maker person was all a flutter and not quite adept with the lettuce as normal. And the cause of this messiness and frankly less than perfect sandwich crafting? That's right the snow. Sake.

It was bothering her and it was all she could talk about. She spent most of time peering out the window and barely glanced at my lunch. This is why I ended up with a cheese, ham and chicken sandwich instead of the cheese and ham I had so eloquently and precisely asked for. It was the same when I ventured out for coffee some time later. It was all people could talk about, the snow and how the bloody city had come to a standstill because of it. Snow, it's the ruination of a good sandwich and the bane of my winter.

The only thing duller than talking about the weather is talking about people who talk about the weather (and then blogging about it). Which is what happened when The Cousin came home form work. The quality of conversation in this house is quite dreadful at the best of times, but this was a new low for us. But even at our most lucid and articulate the best The Cousin and I can muster at each other are a few indeterminable grunts and quite a lot of cross room grumbling. Given that we have four computers in the house we spend a lot time in isolation from each other communicating via email or Facebook but mainly by notes on the fridge. We need a go between, a conduit between the rooms.

So we are getting a dog. Obviously. It's the obvious solution. A Jack Russell, all being well. I may not sleep til it gets here. I may not sleep after that either.

Crikey.....

All advice gratefully accepted. Regarding the dog that is, there is nothing that can be done about the snow......or The Cousin.